


It's Blue (What Else Mata's?)

by mardemaravilla



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, FC Chelsea, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardemaravilla/pseuds/mardemaravilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prove your passion for The Blues, they said. Pre-order the kit without seeing it, they said.</p>
<p>For the first time in his life, blind consumerism works in Fernando Torres' favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Blue (What Else Mata's?)

**Author's Note:**

> OMG LATE FILL IS LATE. I wrote this shortly after the OP prompted it and then it got lost in my file of WIPs and I just discovered it again today. Sooooo sorry that I let you think your prompt went unfilled! I really hope you see this!! D:
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4036136#t4036136).
> 
> Heavily based on [the actual event of Juan delivering a shirt to the luckiest bloke alive](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0-L6hjpOQ8).

It's just another day for Fernando. He's in his loft, staring at the half-finished painting on his easel and sighing. He's having an artist's block with his latest work. He knows what he wants to paint, but he just doesn't know what to begin with or how to get the colours to tell the story he's trying to convey in this painting. He rubs at his face in frustration and feels a small swipe of wetness across his cheek. He glances at the mirror hanging on the wall behind him and he sees a smear of royal blue paint across his cheek. Fernando sighs again.

"At least something is getting painted," he tells his reflection. Mirror-Fernando stares back at him with unimpressed eyes before turning back to the canvas. Real-Fernando spends some time working on the background of the painting; doing shadows, textures and details, until the doorbell rings. He's not expecting anyone, but he still goes down to the main floor of his tiny home and opens the front door.

"Hi, good morning. Mr. Torres?"

Fernando stares, dumbstruck.

Juan Mata is standing on his doorstep, with a smile as bright as a Spanish sunrise and flock of cameras and cameramen standing behind him.

"...Hello?" It comes out as more of a question than a reply, but Fernando can't help himself. This is his celebrity crush, _his idol_ , standing on his front step like he's just come over for a spot of tea.

"Hi, how are you?" Juan asks.

Fernando can't get over the surreal feeling of this whole scenario. Here he is, standing in the entryway of his small house, and there is _Juan Mata, number 10 of Chelsea_ staring back at him and asking him how he is. He's brilliant. His insides are screaming with excitement and he feels bloody brilliant.

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you. How-how are you?"

Juan smiles broadly, "I'm well, thanks. _¿Sois de España?_ "

Despite the years he's spent in England, Fernando knows that his English is a little stilted and at times, difficult to understand. Juan however has only been in England for two years, but Fernando has seen enough of his interviews to know that Juan's English is clear and unhindered by the Spanish accent that still rests so heavily on Fernando's tongue. It's made settling down in London difficult at times, but right now, Fernando couldn't be happier about the common language they share. He nods and they smile at each other for a moment longer before Fernando suddenly realises that there's a host of cameramen on his front step and soon his neighbours will start getting curious. He quickly remembers his manners and steps aside, "Please, come in."

The gathering shifts into Fernando's living room and Juan smiles at him again.

"Thank you for pre-ordering the shirt without seeing it. I just came here to give it to you."

Fernando shakes Juan's hand and decides not to waste the opportunity of being so near to him. He draws him into a hug and tries to memorise the way Juan fits neatly against his body, tries to imprint the feel of Juan's prickly beard on his shoulder and his warm hands on Fernando's back before they pull away from each other. Juan hands him the shirt, and Fernando is dimly aware of the fabric in his hands, is far more concerned with their fingers touching through the slippery material.

"Do you like it?" Juan asks.

Fernando looks down at the dark blue shirt and runs his fingers over the coloured crest. He spent months trying to talk himself into buying this shirt, but not for any lack of love for the London club. He's supported Chelsea since he first moved to England and caught one of their league games on the television one lazy morning, but money doesn't always come easy to Fernando as an artist. He had to save for months to buy this shirt, had to convince himself that it wasn't an irresponsible purchase, had to convince himself that he works hard and he deserves to do more with his money than just pay unending bills and feed himself. And then Adidas launched that fantastic ad-campaign to launch the new season's kit and seeing Juan dripping in paint did something to him that Fernando couldn't resist. He nods shyly, painfully aware of the blinking red lights of the cameras that came in with Juan.

" _Es fantástico. Muchas gracias._ "

Juan smiles brightly, "I know that you are a true Chelsea supporter, and I know that you play football too, no?"

Fernando blushes, "When I get the time, yes. I've been busy with work recently, so I haven't played in a while."

"What do you do?"

"I'm an artist."

"Ah, okay. That explains..." Juan makes a light motion towards Fernando's face and with horror, Fernando suddenly remembers the smear of blue paint across his cheek. He swipes hastily at the pigment, but to his dismay and embarrassment, it's already dried and Juan is giggling at him.

"It's okay," the footballer laughs. "It's the blue of Chelsea, no?"

Fernando nods and feels his cheeks heat up. He's very conscious of the cameras circling them and he fidgets with the shirt in his hands.

"Well," Juan continues fluidly and Fernando can't help but marvel at how comfortable he seems in the media spotlight, "I brought a ball with me, so would you like to kick it around outside?"

Fernando nods and takes Juan into his tiny back garden. Juan insists that he puts on his new Chelsea jersey, so Fernando strips off the t-shirt he's wearing and tugs the sportswear over his head. Through the thin fabric, he can see Juan staring at his bare chest and he feels his body heat with excitement and pride. Juan Mata is looking at _him_. Fernando remembers the cameras and pulls the shirt down the rest of the way and turns to the star athlete in his garden. They kick around a Chelsea football that Fernando would rather enshrine on a mantelpiece than defile with his dirty trainers and he thinks of words like _'balance'_ , _'coordination'_ and _'calm the fuck down'_ , but it's difficult to obey his thoughts when his mind is spinning from the fact that he's playing football with Juan Mata.

When the cameras turn off and Juan turns to Fernando the taller man is fairly certain that this is about to be the end of the best day of his life.

And then Juan says, "So, you said you're an artist, right? Can you show me some of your work?"

Fernando thrums with nervous excitement as he takes Juan up to the loft while the camera crew gathers their equipment downstairs. He shows Juan some work hanging on the walls or drying on table-tops and Juan smiles with admiration.

Juan looks at the unfinished painting on the easel and asks, "Do you do commissions?"

Fernando nods, motioning to a corner of the room, "Here I have a stack of finished commissions. I'm just waiting on the clients to pick them up."

Juan switches to Spanish and speaks in a low, inviting tone, "Maybe you could give me your number? You know, so I can call you about getting something done." He smiles again and Fernando feels the temperature of the room rise.

"S-sure."

Juan hands his phone over and Fernando tries not to let his hands shake as he carefully taps the digits in. Juan brushes their fingers together when he takes it back from him.

"I'll call you and maybe we can get together and discuss the painting over dinner? I'd love to get more familiar with your artistic style."

Fernando stutters out a yes and watches with a mix of sadness and wonder as Juan and the camera crew leave his home. He closes the front door and floats dreamily back up to his loft. He's sitting in front of his easel with a silly smile on his face when his phone beeps with a text.

" _Next time don't paint over your freckles, okay? See you soon, Fernando ;) -JM_."

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [The London Morning Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/981814)


End file.
